


Three Dollar Bill

by Faerierust



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bank Robbery, Con Artists, Denial of Feelings, Drama, Drama & Romance, Exes, F/M, Feelings, Getting Back Together, Gun Violence, Heist, Hurt/Comfort, Machiavellianism, Narcissism, Pre-Heist, Robbery, Romance, Terminal Illnesses
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-16
Updated: 2019-08-08
Packaged: 2019-10-29 08:35:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 20,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17804678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Faerierust/pseuds/Faerierust
Summary: The con-artist who left Berlin at the altar is recruited to act as a mole among hostages. Can two criminals and nearlyweds love again? The answer doesn't matter. Berlin must fall.





	1. THE INSANITY DEFENSE

**A CON-MAN SLEEPS** with one eye open, a con-woman sleeps with both eyes open.

Which, I admit, is a fancy way of saying “all I got for Christmas was insomnia and an indefinite residency inside an asylum”. 

See, the nuthouse wasn’t meant to be a permanent part of my plan. It wasn’t actually meant to be part of my life plan at all. Shocking, I know. But this isn’t a biography and you’re not an idiot. I’m a con-artist; telling the truth isn’t in the job description—telling you a good story, however, is.

 

//

 

I don’t know why I shelled out and paid a lawyer to tell me that pleading insanity to avoid a one hundred year long prison sentence was a good idea. Regardless, the question reverberated in my head all day and all night. Maybe I missed my true calling in life. I thought, watching time bleed weeks into months.

For someone who was accustomed to living beyond the law, being confined in a concrete kingdom and suffocated with mental health nurses was slowly but surely killing me. 

I missed my freedom like a dying man on Everest misses home while he clings to a cliff's edge and prays to a god who doesn't hear him. I missed even the boring parts. The days spent burrowed in a nondescript apartment watching and re-watching recordings of my next mark and studying them, the tedium of rehashing the same point to your dumb mark, and even the paperwork was preferable to acting clinically insane. 

It was like having the same nightmare every night, except you wouldn't wake up and everything blurs into one twisted montage.

Wake up. Shower and eat goop for breakfast. Attend an aimless group therapy session. Yard time. Lunch. Stare at the security fence for hours. Dinner. Sit in silence in the common room. Get sent into your cell. Try to sleep, fail, beg the nurse for pills, fail that too, stare at your eyelids, repeat.

Didn't I have a right to die?

 

//

 

"Please, stop!"

My head snapped up. I had a crudely fashioned shiv in my right hand and a deathwish in my left. Not my best work, of course. It was reinforced chicken-wire glass attached to a duct tape handle. There was no explaining my way out of this one. Shit.

I expected to hear Josefina with the hook nose or Magdalena with that ever-present day-old tuna stench—or any of the other ladies who worked in the facility—but instead, I came face-to-face with a man.

My shiv went clattering onto the cold concrete. I scrambled back but smashed my back against the kitchen dumpster. The man snatched my makeshift weapon away from me. I stared up at him. He looked young-ish. Probably in his thirties. Classical features, tidy facial hair, glasses—and the impression of a bookworm from one glance alone.

Although, the speed and assuredness at which he seized the shiv betrayed a background in some sort of combat sport. None of the other nurses ever had that sort of reflex.

"Who are you?" I asked, impatient to be left alone again.

"Currently, a nurse for your ward," he said, "possibly, your ticket out of this place."

I blinked at the unassuming, gentle-looking male nurse and burst out laughing. If this was a con, it could get a three out of ten for effort. Opening my palm, I gestured for him to return my little knife. He slipped it into his pocket and clasped his hands together. His eyebrows knitted together and a cute, little frown twisted his lips.

"Possibly, a patient even more insane than I am," I snorted and thrust my outstretched hand towards him again, "give the shiv back, sweetheart."

He fished for something in his other pocket before he pulled out leaves of photographs. My jaw slackened and I stared at the evidence he brought out.

"I know you don't belong here," he said.

On top of the pile was an image of my planning corkboard. The notes, photographs, and important details I pinned were all in clear view. It was a miracle that he even found my former hideout, let alone managed to take photos of something I destroyed shortly after creating. I nodded along, stunned. 

"I'm not a nurse. In fact, I'm here because I'm looking for your talent with manipulating your marks," he fanned out the rest of the photos, all of which were evidence of my sane mental state and meticulousness with planning serious fraud.

"You're bailing me out of here and hiring me?"

He nodded, leaned in, and lowered his voice to a whisper.

"I need someone who can convince hostages that you're one of them for eleven days. Earn their trust, encourage complying with the robbers, and discreetly sabotage their escape attempts," he said, "You'll be among over sixty captives. It could be dangerous, but you and the robbers will bring back 2.4 billion Euro."

With that much money, I could leave the country. I could start anew and put everything behind me. Maybe never spend another day dancing with crime.

"Consider it done."

 

//

 

****

**BIENVENIDOS**

********

********

The man who smuggled me out of the nuthouse wrote on a dark green chalkboard.

Alongside a colourful group of strangers, I sat in an improvised classroom in an abandoned countryside mansion. The only information offered to us all so far was that our mastermind preferred to be called "The Professor", which was a little corny but I wasn't about to turn down the two billion Euro heist. We were a ragtag group. A melting pot of adults of different ages and backgrounds.

Three heavy-set, bearded men looked well into their forties. Two of the men were younger, bright-eyed and a little too restless for comfort. There were two other women in total, both of them pretty in the same way ocelots are. Gorgeous, dressed in either fur or silk jackets and eyes full of dangerous ideas.

There was another man sitting near the front, but I was seated at the very back and couldn't glimpse his face. Broad shoulders, a perfect fit of a suit, and oozing confidence like souffle oozes caramel.

Then, he turned. Just a fraction and I saw him. The prolific robber, the thief, the criminal who once relieved Paris's Champs-Elysees of over four hundred diamonds. The man I once left at the altar. My heartbeat stuttered and, for a second, I felt my body go cold with denial.

"Welcome. I welcome you and thank you for accepting this job offer."

The Professor fixed his glasses.

"We'll live here, far from the worldly noise. For five months. Five months spent training on how to do the job."

One of the older men raised his hand. This one wore a knitted sweater, with a checkered collar peeking out from the top of it.

"Five months? Are you crazy?" he asked.

"Look. People spend years studying for a salary, which at the end of the day, is just a shitty salary. I've been working on this plan for much longer. When it's over, you'll never have to work another day of your life. Your children wouldn't need to work either."

The older man fell silent and The Professor continued.

"You don't know each other yet, and I want it to stay like that. I don't want any names or personal questions, and of course - personal relationships," he said, "I want each of you to choose a name. Something simple. Like planets, numbers, cities."

"Okay. So I can be Mister 17 and someone can be Mister 23?" said a young guy with a chain around his neck. He laughed a little in an unreal way. Picture one person saying 'ha-ha-ha', except in the exact same note for each 'ha' and spat out like a machine gun. I swallowed my urge to scrunch up my face at the sound I'd be hearing for the next half year. 

"That's a bad start," The Professor said. I mentally agreed. The last thing we need is to forget someone's obscure pseudonym in the middle of a heated shootout with the law.

"Yeah, I can hardly remember my phone number. Let alone random digits for names," the older man with the knitted sweater scoffed.

"That's why I said it."

There was some sneering from the front of the class and the sweater man sighed at the jab. Eureka. We've got a probable father and son in the team.

"How about I be Mars and he can be Uranus?" Boy-next-door with the hoodie on asked.

I rolled my eyes at the overused planetary joke. Did anyone ever laugh at this after turning, I don't know, twelve? I threw a glance at my ex-fiancé's back. If he found it amusing, he wasn't showing it. The Professor cleared his throat.

"It'll be cities. Cities." And that was that.

My name is Cairo. My would-have-been husband: Berlin. I would be infiltrating the hostages and ruining any rebellion. He would be leading the rest of the robbers while we're both locked inside a mint for eleven days. Can a criminal love? The answer doesn't matter.

Berlin must fall.


	2. SHARK IN A SWIMMING POOL

**\- NO NAMES  
** **\- NO PERSONAL QUESTIONS  
\- NO PERSONAL RELATIONSHIPS**

The Professor concluded our first lesson with an agreeable ‘thank you’ and the prompt erasure of the chalk notes he wrote on the board. One of the younger guys, Denver, already swivelled around to shoot the shit with Rio, our computer whizz version of Mozart. 

“Class is dismissed. Feel free to explore the rest of our countryside home. Dinner will be in the dining room at six,” The Professor said.

Most of my classmates rose to their feet and left the classroom. Tokyo, another criminal with robbery experience, sauntered over to Rio. Maybe I would’ve, too. He had the boy-next-door look in spades and I’ve heard of the time he compromised a Swiss mansion’s security system. Looks and brains. Too bad, he was practically fresh out of teenagehood. I’m a lot of things but I’m not a cradle-snatcher. Even criminals have a code of conduct and I happen to observe it. Thank you for listening.

Berlin, the man who proposed to me a decade ago, was still in the room. I watched him fix his pricey cuff-links. An old habit for both of us. Even the way his suit rests on his shoulders screamed self-indulgence. Likely some Ermenegildo Zegna piece. I could practically hear him in my head.

_Careful. My suit costs more than your house. Allow me to rub it in as much as grammatically possible._

He’d lead the assault inside the Royal Mint, which was a shame because I could see him singling me out to roll out the red carpet for him — all the while knowing that I can’t deny him unless I blow my cover. None of the other robbers would step in unless they’d want their heads on the cutting board sometime soon, either. 

I pushed my chair back and made my way to the door. We could have our first post-breakup chat over dinner, where there’d be a team of other criminals around as potential chaperones in case things got ugly.

“ _Muy buenos_ , Cairo.”

His voice sounded the exact same as I remembered it. My professional swindler instincts kicked in before I could’ve said anything irreparable. 

I summoned up every pleasant memory I had after pulling a vanishing act on him. I passed myself off as a non-existent duchess, fostered a cat, sold “bill” printers for thousands, pretended to be an aircraft repo woman and stole off with a private jet, anonymously donated to a charity out of guilt — I’ve been Spain’s patron saint.

“ _Muy buenos_ , Berlin,” I said, smiling and turning to face him, voice warm like apple pie.

He straightened his tie, which didn’t need fixing, and leaned back against the nearest desk. The years brought on hints of salt and pepper in his usually black-brown hair. His smile lines were heavier, or maybe it seemed that way because he swapped out a trimmed beard for stubble. 

Berlin’s gaze raked up and down my body. He took the sight of me in like a shark eyeing squid and considering whether he was hungry enough to warrant hunting it down. Tokyo was right. He was a shark in a swimming pool. His attention lingered on the crook of my neck before flashing me one of his toothy grins.

“Why Cairo and not Ulaanbaatar?” he said, “You should wear your Mongol blood like a badge. Age has been merciful to you.”

“Why Ulaanbaatar and not Mörön?” I quipped.

Berlin’s dark brown eyes glinted like cognac when he snorted at the joke. He spread his arms for a hug and, for a moment, I swore I saw a flicker of vulnerability while he waited for me to either hold him or turn him down.

Turns out, I was wrong. 

He pulled me close to whisper in my ear. Berlin’s voice was ice water on my skin. His fingers gripped me firmly as though he needed to emphasise his point. “I haven’t forgotten your entirely romantic runaway,” he hissed.

“I tend to have that effect on people,” I said.

“Then I’m a lucky man to have you as a model hostage.”

Berlin let go of me and patted me on the shoulder as if he wasn’t underhandedly threatening me two seconds ago. For the sake of two billion euros, I beamed like we were best friends and shook his hand.


	3. FINE WINE

Apparently, angels exist because I didn't run into my ex-fiancé until later that day.

It was dinner time and the gang settled around a baroque dining table. Curves and counter-curves ran like wild horses along the legs and the edges. It'd be a pricey piece to pawn, I thought, trailing an idle finger down its length while Helsinki settled down beside me. Plates were passed along and cutlery set down.

"To a successful heist!" Berlin said.

He popped a bottle of _Anna de Codorniu_ and filled The Professor's glass before offering it to anyone else who might enjoy the familiar buzz.

I watched as the alcohol made its rounds around the table. The sun was setting in the horizon and basked the entire room in an amber-gold cast. The roast duck was speared with silver forks. Mashed potatoes and caramelised onions were scooped up in silver spoons. Meanwhile, the conversation between us loosened as the liquor kicked in. If you squinted, we'd almost look like one extensive family reunion.

"Helsinki, Oslo; in the right light, you two could fit in a beer ad," Tokyo quipped, watching the Serbians down their drinks, which looked toy-sized in their hands. A conspirational smile spread across her lips, "I think Nairobi would look good with champagne."

Nairobi snorted and waved a jewelled hand in Tokyo's direction. My gaze lingered on the flamboyant but calculated way she'd flash her fingers like a fireworks show.

"Champagne? That's so pretentious. I'm more of a wine lady myself."

"Oh, I disagree," I said, "you're definitely champagne material. Way too obsessed with money."

Tokyo cackled and 'casually' laid her head on Rio's shoulder while Nairobi made a face of mock-offence. On my right, Helsinki slapped me hard across the shoulder, rumbling with laughter. The Professor smiled across the table but busied himself with his roast duck—and my ex-fiancé smirked.

Of course, he'd smirk in that immaculate waistcoat and tie. Oxford blue. So fucking sophisticated on a man with the emotional capacity of a brute. Berlin still had that (handsome, but headache-inducing) self-assured air about him. That whole 'I could rob you blind and you'd thank me' look; all time had done was give him a track record to back it up. After all, a sword swathed in silk is still sharp.

"Shut up, swindler! You're fruit juice trying to pass itself for cider," Nairobi said, rousing another wave of laughter from our ragtag gang. Rio perked up. His bright-eyed face glowing with the satisfaction of having a witty comment ready.

"Fruit juice is a drink of culture! Five jugs and all you'll get is diabetes," he said.

I snorted and rolled my eyes and The Professor smiled despite himself. Others began to join the 'if-you-were-a-drink-what-would-you-be' game.

"Cairo is wine," Helsinki insisted, "like Berlin. Whine and wine couple"

_Oof!_ That was close to the mark, muscleman.

I elbowed the Serbian 'in jest' and laughed at the pain that shot up my arm. I have no idea what he's made of, but if someone told me Helsinki bleeds concrete instead of blood-I'd believe them. Of course, the former-soldier didn't react at all to the pain (if he even felt any?) Maybe The Professor worked in HR in a past life. In that case: A+ hire.

"I can see it!" Tokyo exclaimed.

"What's the difference between fine wine and fine women?" Denver put on an affected Berlin impression and puffed out his chest, "Wine leaves less of a headache after getting drunk."

Then he finished it off with his insufferable machine-gun laughter. Moscow gave him a swift kick under the table, but it didn't stop our merry band of fugitives from snickering.

"Oh no, no, no. The difference is that wine doesn't try to escape from his cellar," I corrected.

The gang exploded into fits again. The Professor set down his wine glass and clutched at his stomach, gasping for air. I tingled with pride at how even Berlin had to laugh and play along with it—or expose us as exes. He was always a remarkably good actor. 

Maybe, in another life, he'd steal hearts instead of diamonds. Clearing my throat, I shouted over the ruckus.

"No hard feelings, eh, Berlin?"

_Oh, who was I kidding?_


	4. THE PSYCHOPATH TRAP

Helsinki, Oslo, and I crowded around a billiards table. The moon was out, the crickets were serenading her, and the room's chandelier flickered in its low light. In a team of mostly Spaniards, we were the obvious foreigners and we made a game out of it. Them because of their Serbian accents and me because of my Mongol face.

"You teach us Spanish every time we score, okay?" Helsinki ribbed, sinking a number 8 ball into one of the corner pockets. Oslo nodded his approval. I watched as he bounced the one ball off one of the stars, failing to win another point, and handed me back the cue.

"Driving a hard bargain there," I said, bouncing the white ball against another corner and ruining his earlier strategy, "I'll have to think about it."

"We be nice," Oslo offered.

Honestly, I wasn't against it as long as it wasn't too much work. I like to live life at an easy pace, you know? Then again - most of my cons were run solo or with minimal outside assistance. Teamwork has a habit of getting messy. If I had to choose people to work with, I'd rather choose brawn over brain. Being out-punched is painful, being outsmarted is downright humiliating.

Not to mention, it's a good idea to be chummy with others involved in crowd control. They'd be the metaphorical stick and I'd be the metaphorical carrot. Good cop, bad cop, whatever. A slaughterhouse by any other name still spells death for sheep.

I laid the cue stick down on the table and leaned against it. Two solid fortresses of muscle blinked back at me. Pure, violent potential. It was easy to forget about when they were busy teasing you and laying down the law via a friendly game of billiards, though.

Helsinki mimicked my pose, exaggerating the way I cupped my chin and smiled at me. Seeing a bearded man (probably twice my weight) mimic me had me burst into laughter.

"Okay, okay. You got me. This Mongolian woman will be your Spanish teacher. Just fix up my Russian and we'll call it even."

"Is a deal. You get lesson ready now," Helsinki said, satisfaction creeping into his tone.

I threw my hands up and made a show of exiting the living room. My bedroom was upstairs and I figured, hey, why not actually bring a notepad down? I'd write in Old Mongol script instead of Spanish to fuck with them but I'd still need a pen and paper.

 

 

// 

 

 

Moments before I stepped into my bedroom, I overheard a conversation definitely not intended for my ears. The source of the noise? The Professor's room. The speakers? Our lovely mastermind and my lovely would-have-been husband.

"I want to know why you recruited her of all people. Enlighten me."

Curious. I wasn't crossing off the possibility that he might've been questioning Tokyo's role on the team. She didn't have a great record, lacked a particular niche, and wasn't someone else's bargaining chip. But, the angry quaver in Berlin's voice hinted at deeper-set effect.

"She was the most qualified one I could trust, Andres. You know what it's like working with con-artists; they're double-edged swords by nature," The Professor said, "and this one has the least incentive to betray us."

Okay, that crosses Tokyo off the list.

"Tell me, have you ever touched her before?" Berlin said.

There was a startled pause from The Professor. Also worth noting, there was a startled and borderline-offended pause from me, too.

"Excuse me?" The Professor said.

Berlin laughed. It was a bitter sound. I imagine he shook his head, too.

"Next time you talk to her, put your fingers on her wrist and press for a pulse," he said, "You won't feel the usual ba-bump, ba-bump, ba-bump. No."

There was the gentle clink of a wine glass being set down on a table. He paused for dramatic effect. The Professor and I remained silent. 

"You'll feel nothing—because she's heartless," Berlin said.

Ha-ha, ouch! Straight through my allegedly empty chest cavity.

The Professor started up but failed to compose any convincing rhetoric. There was a long, uncomfortable silence. I kept my gaze trained at the end of the corridor. If there was an approaching shadow, I'd have to enter my bedroom and give up on following the rest of the conversation. Hopefully, Helsinki and Oslo would continue to play billiards without me.

Berlin's next words were cold but his tone wavered like the final flames in a bonfire. His theatrics evaporated. Anger is an accessible emotion; unlike sorrow, it's a force—but even his fury flickered. Raw hurt and betrayal simmered in the air.

"Don't tell me you're doing this as an act of mercy for me, little brother," Berlin warned.

Oh. I knew he had a little half-brother but, admittedly, I baulked at the thought of meeting - or even seeing - any of his family. We were due to meet on the day of the wedding, which I knew right from day zero of the engagement that I'd disappear before. So sorry, baby. Maybe in another life, I would've met him before today.

"I'm not," The Professor said.

No names, no personal questions, no personal relationships—but you still want your big brother to make amends with the absolute angel of a woman who broke his heart and never looked back?

At the sound of approaching footsteps, I peeled away from The Professor's bedroom door and made my way into my room. The conversation stayed on my mind for the rest of the night.

See, it's easy to fall into the psychopath trap, assume the worst of my ex, and label him one if you don't know him. It's not my job to tell the truth; it's usually the opposite. However, if I had to vouch for one thing in my life, it's that Berlin isn't a psychopath. That's bullshit.

A mansion-robber, yes. Jewel thief, yes. Bit of a prick, yes. A man bursting at the seams with narcissistic tendencies, sure.

But, Berlin believes in love—and I don't.


	5. RED BERETTA

"Remember this: Once there's a drop of blood - if there's a single victim - we'll stop being Robin Hoods and we'll simply become sons of bitches," The Professor said.

He circled around his desk, opened a drawer, and pulled out a red Beretta. Our mastermind twirled the weapon around his fingers before snapping it into a proper hold and pointing it at me. We made eye-contact and The Professor smiled.

"Cairo will keep this pistol on her in a hidden pocket in case the hostages discover the ruse," he said, waving the gun around to demonstrate a rattling sound, "it's a custom-built replica. Pressing a button hidden above the trigger will mimic the sound of a bullet knocking about in the chamber."

The Professor threw me the Beretta and I turned it over; it was, by all means, a disturbingly well-made fake. If he hadn't said anything about it being a glorified toy, I'd assume it was real.

"Note that the remaining firearms, regardless of whether or not they're props, will be in more conventional colours. A red beretta pointed at any of you isn't a death sentence, but it does signify that Cairo's cover is compromised."

He leaned back against the classroom desk and drew a deep breath.

"Now that we've covered the theory, let us go outside for practical exercises."

  


//

  
A row of assault rifles laid opposite a row of shooting targets. Helsinki and Oslo picked up their respective guns with practised ease. Denver scrambled to take the one beside Helsinki, probably for a live model of how to hold use weapon professionally, and I found myself left only with the AK-47 beside the one Berlin held.

"Professor," I began, "is it really necessary for me to take part in this? Wouldn't it be more convincing if I genuinely didn't know how to fire an automatic?"

This probably isn't going to work but it's better to try and fail than not try at all.

"It's a contingency plan, Cairo. It could mean the difference between a successful and a failed heist," The Professor said.

Of course.

  


//

  
My hands were shaking from the recoil every time I fired. 

I knew guns kicked, everyone does, but holding one and feeling the jolt through the entire weapon was a different story. My blood was singing in my head and my ears were ringing before I even registered the sound of gunfire. The urge to toss my gun aside and head back into the villa. take a catnap, and just give up on guns grew every moment. 

I was way out of my depth compared to most of them. It was so apparent. Maybe except Moscow, Nairobi, and Rio but Moscow had his son to help him while Nairobi and Rio were close to Tokyo.

Denver spat out bullets with prodigious ease. His assault rifle rattled off with a loud _FRRRRRRRRAK_ while the dummy opposite him recoiled under the pressure. Helsinki and Oslo were near-perfect soldiers. Frankly, I'm not sure if they missed any of their shots. Why'd that little prick take my rightful place by the Serbs?

I doubled down on my grip. Clutching the metal magazine and focusing on the red and white target propped on the other side of the shooting range. I squeezed the trigger—and promptly missed most of my shots.

There was a pause on my right while Berlin reloaded. He clicked another magazine into place, pulled back and released the charging handle, before getting back into place and spitting out bullets again. Even while armed with an AK-47, he had the dignity and grace of a baron on a leisurely hunting trip.

My attention must've lingered for a moment too long because he looked straight back at me and stopped firing. His gaze raked over my gun and darted to my barely-touched target. Berlin threw me a piteous smile.

"Can't con an inanimate object, Cairo?"

I choked the urge to roll my eyes and made a cartoonishly sorrowful face instead.

"It's been challenging."

Berlin laughed and, for a moment, I saw a glimpse of him when we were together. There was a softness in how the corners of his eyes would crinkle in amusement. Then he still had his old habit of cocking his head whenever he found something genuinely funny.

"I'll let you continue to challenge yourself, then."

He pulled up his assault rifle and levelled the barrel at the target again. God forbid that he offers to help a con who's never fired anything fancier than a revolver in her entire life.

It was either this or I'd fall even further behind the rest of them. As much as I despise exerting myself, I don't want to be a begrudged afterthought while we lie scattered on the mint's cold tile floor in a pool of our own blood. This was a bridge I'd have to cross sooner or later; there wasn't any getting around it.

For the first time in more than a decade, I reached out for Berlin.


	6. ANDRÉS

I placed my hand on Berlin's wrist.

His focus immediately flickered back from the dummy on the far side of the shooting range to where my fingers rested on his skin. He was warmer to the touch than I was. Burning, I'd imagine, with whatever machinations churning through that exquisite head of his.

_Here is the man who loved and lost me in 1999._

I saw the momentary slack in his shoulders. It was a familiar gesture for both of us when we were still together. Andrés—Berlin—would seethe over a perceived slight and I'd do this.

He'd pace back and forth in our drawing room, rattling out ways he'd punish the wrongdoer in question until he started clearing desks and breaking vases. Then (and only then) I'd finally put down my glass of whatever vice I liked at the time before reaching out to squeeze his wrist. It grounded him, brought him back to the present, and it brought him back to me.

I remember the first time one of his accomplices snitched and the news got around. Berlin lost it. He tore through the room like a hurricane. The apartment was a concert of him breaking out into long-winded monologues and smashing bottles on countertops. Frustrated that my words were blown aside, I grabbed his wrist and I kissed him.

He froze up at first.

Then he hoisted me up against the wall and kissed me back with the desperation only a sentenced man had. University boys kiss with fever-dream fervour, businessmen kiss with practised poise, and Andrés kissed with everything he had. His hands tangled in my hair, traced along my waist, and laced themselves with mine. He only pulled away to murmur promises I knew we'd struggle to keep, but the point was there. He'd give it all for us.

_To think we were only in our twenties._

Nostalgia must've hit him, too. He yanked his hand back a fraction of an inch as though he got nipped with a naked flame. Blink and you'd miss it.

"Cairo; if you wanted help, you only need to ask for it," he said, his tone cool-headed in contrast to the violent knee-jerk reaction he tried to suffocate. There was a clicking sound as he put his assault rifle down to approach me.

Berlin sidled up beside me, close enough that I picked up on his cologne. Star anise, galanga, black currant. Opium Pour Homme by Yves Saint Laurent for men. Otherwise known as his old reliable. A beautifully constructed fragrance which cries opulence and sophistication.

I vaguely noticed that most of the others had emptied their magazine quotas and were heading back to the villa. Probably for a mid-afternoon drink. Maybe making out if you were called either Tokyo or Rio. The sound of Denver riling up Moscow faded away. The Professor lingered in the corner of my vision for a moment before he, too, left.

The Professor, which brings me back to last night.

The man who accused me of being heartless stood beside me. His attention fixed on my situation with the assault weapon.

"Control the muzzle," Berlin said. He glanced me over, taking silent note of any areas for improvement, "keep it pointed close to your target even when your magazine's empty. It's easy to forget in the middle of a gunfight but critical to remember."

Adjusting myself per his instructions, I fired again. This time I managed to clip the dummy.

" _Muy bien._ "

His fingers brushed against mine. Berlin moved with cool professionalism. He gingerly pushed my crossed thumb forward and squeezed the rest of my palm tighter around the handle. Although he moved with cool professionalism, I wondered whether it was necessary to touch me at all. It was silent between us. I was silent when I eavesdropped on his conversation with his little brother—or was I?

I clicked another magazine into the gun, pulled back and released the charging handle, and leaned forwards to fire again. There wasn't much ammunition left from my quota today and I wanted to make this count. Steeling myself, I unloaded the clip with a _FRRRRRRRRAK_ and hit the dummy maybe two-thirds of the time.

Not a word of praise from him this time. With one hand clutching the last magazine and the other steadying the gun, I reloaded for the final time. Berlin remained close by. His hands covering mine as he helped. He brushed his thumb against my knuckles while I turned away to fire.

"Try not to flinch," he suggested, his breath hot on my ear.

Berlin pressed the barrel of a handgun into my gut.

The cold metal kissed my skin through my linen blouse. Of course, he wasn't helping me from the kindness of his heart. I suppose it'd be easy enough to kill me in a shooting range and dump my body in a countryside ditch.

Naturally, he's still mad more than a decade later about our botched wedding and how shitty I was about it. I almost forgot it's his hobby to be harping on about that shit. Honestly? I kind of hoped he would've moved on from his code of conduct crap. Although, changing that would require him to change his entire personality.

It's easy to generalise con-men and say they're dishonourable on a fundamental level, but who's to say thieves aren't? Don't expect honour from someone who steals another man's rightfully earned diamonds. The gun remained flush up against my midriff.

"I should execute you," he said.

"Hey. I'm meant to be the crazy ex," I bargained, "Even got an asylum record to boot."

Berlin pulled the trigger.

Instead of the usual _BANG_ from a pistol, there was the rattling of a bullet in a barrel despite the gun being stock still. I glanced down. The red beretta from earlier rested against me, incapable of actually shooting. My heartbeat resumed its normal pace.

"Good work today," he said, laughing and tucking the decoy into my pocket.

Not a heartbeat later, he turned and left me alone in the shooting range. Alone with the memory of him then and the memory of him now.


	7. 5 AM SAMBA

I woke up to the delightful sound of Tokyo and Rio smashing pissers.

Rolling my eyes and clutching my pillow over my head, I tried to fall back asleep—or smother myself, whichever would've been faster. My bed was still cosy but cosiness doesn't do you favours when your neighbours are preoccupied at some unholy hour of the morning. I burned with the urge to curse The Professor. This is what happens when a nerd decides a "five months of living in the middle of nowhere but _NO_ touchy-touchy" rule is a good idea.

Thinking of anything to preoccupy me, I remembered my coursework sprawled over my desk. The textbook "Central Banking in Theory and Practice" probably stared back at me.

In a few weeks, I'll be Verda Romero, an economist interviewing for a job at the mint. It'd conveniently overlap with the heist, courtesy of Rio tampering with the other candidates' CVs and the manager's personal calendar. Studying macroeconomics for hours a night is the cost of being a believable candidate. It's also the reason why (thanks to lover-girl and lover-boy next door) I was running on close to no sleep.

I groaned but immediately shut up when Tokyo groaned in an entirely different way. You hear a lot of weird shit in an asylum but, thankfully, the sound of patients fucking the sanity out of each other isn't a regular occurrence. The meds affected the men and their ability to get it up.

Rolling over, I grabbed my wrist-watch off the nightstand. 5 AM.

The sun would rise in an hour and the light would kill any chance of me getting shut-eye. I threw on whatever clothes laid closest to me and shambled out of my bedroom. Coffee called my name.

  


//

  
The kitchen lights were on before I entered.  


My eyes adjusted to the light and the Professor's vintage kitchen laid before me in all its baroque beauty. Not a soul in sight. The benchtop glistened with its smooth polish. A glass vase sat in the centre of it, yellow tulips bursting from the mouth. One of the flowers wrinkled its pretty petals as though it was shrinking away from my gaze.

I started the kettle for coffee and, with nothing better to do, I filled a glass with cold water. Opening the pantry, I retrieved a pot of sugar and dissolved a teaspoon of it into the glass. A bit of the sweet stuff keeps the flowers alive for longer.

"Cairo? It's early."

Snapping out of my saintly haze, I spun around from the kettle. On the opposite side of the yellow tulips, Berlin stood in the doorway. His Oxford blue suit lay crumpled across one arm, his dark brown hair laid dishevelled and an even darker pair of bags rested beneath his eyes. One of his black suspenders strapped against his white dress shirt was slightly off-kilter. He coughed and fixed it.

"Yeah," I said, "it's early for Tokyo and Rio, too."

Berlin chuckled. If I had to compare it to something, it'd be the stolen joy in river water. He leaned forward on the bar table between us and whispered, "You're preaching to the choir. I share a wall with Tokyo—the one her bed rests against."

It was my turn to crack up. The poor bastard. I completely forgot about sleeping arrangements and I blame sleep deprivation for that. Misery loves company.

The kettle pinged. The little green button flashed while steam rose from the spout. Berlin smiled, hung his crumpled suit, and brought it upon himself to prepare the coffee. In a bizarre way, it felt like any other morning back in our apartment years ago.

He rolled up his cuffs; I watched his forearms tense and a blue-green vein press under his skin. His fingers danced around the machine, pressed all the buttons despite his sleep-addled state, and slid two cappuccino cups under it. Berlin may be vain but at least he looks good for it.

_Bam!_ The front door slammed open. Denver stumbled into the living room with an unlit cig dangling from his lips, upheaving everything to find a lighter. His singlet from some alt festival last night still clung to him. Berlin spared him only a second before he sneered. With a click, he pulled away from the coffee machine and lit himself a cigarette with the lighter from his coat pocket.

The spectacle didn't go unnoticed. Denver perked up at the sound of the spark but immediately turned away again when he saw it was my ex using it.

"Looking for something?" Berlin said, taking a drag from his cig.

"Fuck off," Denver muttered.

After a moment's pause (as though he was trying to fool us into thinking he was still searching the living room) the younger guy sauntered into the kitchen and flashed me his best attempt at an angelic smile, "Hey, Cairo. Got a light?"

I smiled despite the overwhelming urge to roll my eyes.

The truth is I don't smoke. No way in hell am I going to pay for a faster death. What a scam. But, everyone else aside from The Professor smokes and I try not to stick out in a crowd. Old habits die hard and I'd rather die than tell the truth sometimes.

Denver smirked and took a step closer to me and pushed his shoulders back. He cocked his head and smized with those blue eyes National Geographic would fall over itself trying to photograph.

"You're a fine woman," he tried.

Berlin belly-laughed on my right and actually needed to set his cig aside. He shook his head in slow disbelief. What a gentleman. Truly.

"Last time I checked, you said fine women cause worse headaches than fine wine," I said.

Denver cursed and threw up his hands in defeat.

"Ahh, you know I was joking!" he said.

"Were you? I don't know."

He stepped aside, turned away and groaned. I waved goodbye to Denver while he left the kitchen. Busying himself, Berlin pulled both of the now-full cappuccino cups away from the coffee machine and handed me one before popping a teaspoon of sugar into his.

Figuring he wasn't trying to poison me, I took a sip. Dirty, bitter, and finished with a burnt smell. Just like how I preferred it. Wasting no time, I chugged the entire thing.

"I'm impressed you remember how I like my coffee," I said, smiling and wiping my mouth.

"Don't flatter yourself. We like the exact same thing."

"And that's why you only put sugar in yours."

His gaze flickered to the pot of sugar he borrowed from my flower-tending antics earlier. Oh, poor baby. A gullible Russian woman took me under her wing when I was a teen looking for my first mark. She was a florist and I was her little helper. Sweet old Lyubov didn't know shit about me but she did know a hell of a lot about flower meanings.

Yellow tulips - hopeless love.

I trimmed one stem and tucked the flower behind his left ear.


	8. FIFTY MILLION EUROS

_... A look at other jurisdictions shows that banking problems can harm central banks reputations. The Bank of England was heavily hit by the BCCI and Barings scandals. This applies generally to regulatory responsibilities as the Libor scandal illustrates. The worst damage would occur when the ECB fails to head off a banking problem and loses money..._

Throwing my textbook on central banking aside, I sat on my desk and popped a bottle of champagne I (definitely legitimately) bought. My left hand roamed for the box of assorted Michel Cluizel chocolate.

God knows how they managed to sell for nearly a thousand fucking euro.

I chugged a mouthful of the liquor straight from the bottle, propriety be damned, and popped a handful of the chocolate in straight afterwards. Don't drink on an empty stomach; it's a rookie move. Overindulgence tastes good, regardless. If you're wondering, the chocolate was nice, too. Not sure if it's worth the price tag but, hey, I've never managed to cultivate a fine palate.

_Knock-knock!_

"Cairo?" The Professor said from the other side of the bedroom door.

I froze. Then, I glanced down at my champagne and chocolate. Fuck. This was the mental asylum and my shitty shank scuffle all over again. I scrambled to weasel my way out of this foxhole.

"Just a minute, Professor!"

 

 

  


//

  


 

 

The Professor settled in the bedroom's only other chair. He laced and unlaced his fingers. Millions of machinations whirled behind those beautiful eyes. His gaze darted around the room, never lingering in one place for too long.

"I need you to do me a favour," he said.

Oh? This was unusual. I crossed my legs and smiled at my guardian angel. He maintained his serious face. If Berlin didn't call him his little brother, I wouldn't have guessed. The Professor was so stuck in his own head compared to him. I nodded along.

"As you're aware, I won't be inside the mint with you," he said, "but it's absolutely critical that Berlin escapes with the rest of you. He knows too much and poses the most risk to everyone if he's apprehended while we are fleeing the country. I need someone who I can trust will push him to leave in case he gets reckless while I'm away from the phone."

"You, on the other hand, will likely be the most well-rested in the team. I trust you'll keep a clear head throughout the entire heist."

It clicked into place; this is the real reason why I was recruited.

Baby brother's worried about his big brother. It's not some C-grade rom-com in the making. Pity he had to rope in an ex, but Berlin mentioned going through five divorces in the past and he no longer wears a wedding band. Guess there wasn't much choice?

I glanced back at The Professor. He still had his trademark serious puppy expression on. It was clever thinking, though. This is the kind of information which would ruin a team if word got out. I'd bet the remainder of the chocolate and the champagne that Berlin would go nuclear if he knew about this.

"I'm offering you a fifty million euro bonus if you can make sure he leaves with the rest of the robbers."

My eyebrow quirked at his offer. Here I was thinking that this would be unpaid work and my patron saint blesses me with a decent incentive. Whatever. I wasn't about to look this gift horse in the mouth. Fifty million isn't anything to scoff at it. No fucking way.

"That's awfully generous of you, Professor."

"I'll even overlook your questionably-acquired new belongings."

I rolled my eyes and pulled out the box of Michel Cluizel. Plucking the lid off, I offered the man who broke me out of the nuthouse his choice in chocolates. Smiling and thanking me, he gingerly picked one up and popped it in his mouth.

"It's a deal," I promised.


	9. CONQUISTADORA

**CONMAN-TURNED-HITMAN ARRESTED IN NYC APARTMENT**

The mugshot of my first and last protege burned on the front page of my newspaper like someone took a branding iron and stamped the shit smack in the middle of the damn thing. Dante, Dante, Dante—what've you done?

He was probably the closest I've had to a kid (until I returned to Spain, anyway). The boy had a gift for improvisation but a curse for caring too much for his sister. I warned him. I warned him so many fucking times. Don't set yourself on fire to keep others warm—push them into the pit if they complain about the cold. Feelings will be the end of you in this line of work.

I put down the paper and leaned back in my chair. Sometimes, you forget how fickle freedom is for fugitives. Dante probably has at least a decade without parole. If I get recaptured, that'd be the rest of my life behind bars. Sobering.

But, he'll be fine. He's survived worse encounters. What matters is the here and now.

My desk now had a jug of water instead of the bottle of champagne; I chugged a glass and cleared my head of my protege. With the fifty million euros on my mind and the first day of the heist tomorrow, I approached Berlin's room. The door was closed and I rapped on it with the back of one hand.

"Come in."

Funny how we used to share a bed and now I'm the one knocking on his bedroom door. My stomach coiled on itself. I don't know why. Although, I suspect it was the fear that he'd see right through me. I operate with a few cardinal rules. Number one: don't harm children. Number two: don't run relationship scams. Number three: don't hit the same mark twice.

Which sucks for Berlin. He probably thinks I got together with him for something but that's not the case. Anywaaay, that's a long story and one that's for another day. I opened the door.

"Oh. Eager, aren't you?" he said once he saw it was me.

"I was gonna ask you to come outside."

"What's this?" Berlin smirked, "Housekeeping?"

"Huge insult. I'm a direct descendant of Mongolia's first _Khagan_ , the Khan of Khans."

It sounds more impressive than it is. Genghis Khan was a complete warlord who, like a lot of great leaders, had a thing for women. About a third of Mongolians are his distant children. The man's a "Super Father" and has up to sixteen million male descendants. Regardless, I played along and snorted, scanning his bedroom.

"I don't clean, I conquer," I said.

"And you're here to conquer me?"

Oh, the ego. I shook my head at him. Mongols had three primary ground tactics, nothing fancy, but it still made itself the largest land empire in history. The bread and butter were flanking and encirclement; both of which required - you know - more than one person? I laughed and turned for the door.

He snorted. I felt a triumphant smile curl on my lips. 

The third and most difficult tactic was the false retreat.

I whirled around and pinned him on his bed.

The covers billowed as we hit the bed and the mattress heaved beneath us. My blood pumped hard in my head. I watched with hardly hidden delight as Berlin remembered to breathe again. Sometimes mischief gives as good of a kick as a decent con.

" _What if I am?_ " I challenged, my voice was breathy but thick with defiance.

He paused like the world held still.

When the shock wore off, Berlin's gaze trailed up, then down my figure. It skimmed along the curve of my hips, the shape of my legs, and the hollow of my throat. We were close enough that I could feel the warmth rolling off his body. Lying on his back, his hair was pushed aside like a dark crown around his classical features. Portrait: a king without a country.

My hands sunk down on the bed. I could feel the mattress bending beneath us, the swell of the covers he sleeps under. My black hair tumbled down by the side of my face like a curtain between us and the rest of the villa. I noticed Berlin glance at it, the memory of one hundred nights shining in those cognac eyes; he didn't touch it.

His focus lingered on my lips now. I don't know whether it's an old habit from my job to build rapport, but I mirrored him. Age alters all of us but his lips looked so familiar. Cupid's bow curved for an Olympian. Bottom lip flushed, like cranberries and guava flesh.

Finally, we looked at each other. Really stared for the first time since the day before our wedding. Me because I knew it'd be the last time I'd see him for a long time. Maybe forever. Him because he was high on excitement. If I try hard enough, I can remember how I could hear the curl of his smile when he kissed the back of my neck and told me he couldn't wait to share our lives together.

How much has he changed? How little has he changed? The two questions echoed in my head like two bullets rattling in a barrel for Russian Roulette.

Berlin was the first to break the silence with that lazy, but seductive, smile that he does best.

"Well, _conquistadora_. You've got me where you want me."

I pulled away, brushing off the stray thoughts in my head from earlier.

"Excellent," I said, "because I want you at the front door in ten."


	10. TOLEDO

Throwing on my coat, I opened the front door of the villa, expecting to see Berlin standing on the porch like we agreed to.

Only the night sky greeted me. Toledo's countryside sprawled out in front of me like a moody oil painting. Fields of dark green grass billowed in the breeze. The road ran off into the horizon, the moon winked from behind a blanket of purple-blue clouds and my darling ex was nowhere to be seen.

I double-checked my watch. He was ten minutes late, that is if he was going to show up at all. I had half a mind to turn around and head back inside. Even with a decent coat on, it was cold and the heist was tomorrow morning.

My attention snapped back to the present moment. I heard the clomp of heavy boots approaching around the corner. The papa of the group—Moscow—ambled over, puffing on a fat cigar from under his beret. He smiled at me from behind the wall of smoke, but the old man forgot to relax the rest of his face and his eyebrows remained knitted together. The entire expression looked more strained than a twisted ankle. Pre-heist jitters, probably.

This man was our team's dedicated tunneler. Not only was he our golden ticket out of the mint once we've printed the money; he'd also supervise the hostages working on a secondary, decoy tunnel for the cops to wrongly ambush. He was a man made of drills, picks, and shovels. Of course, the actual heist part of the robbery was unchartered territory.

I smiled back at him and perched on the nearby patio chair.

"Looking for Denver?" I asked.

"Looking for some space away from that boy."

I didn't bother holding back my sniggering. I still remembered the time Denver stumbled out of the Professor's throwaway shitty tin can of a car asking for a lighter instead of rooming with his old man like how he usually did.

"You're a generous dad to hook your son up with this plan. Pay isn't half bad, right?" I said, "It's gotta at least triple fighting for sport."

Moscow scoffed and I caught the way his tightened on his cigar for a moment. Apprehension. Maybe regret. Who could say for certain?

"He's a headache and a goddamn half, but my boy gives his heart to everything, you know? Fighting, laughing, running away from the fucking cops, getting involved with..." his sentence lulled and he caught himself before he said too much, "...with the mess he's made of himself."

I just nodded along. There's no reason to trust a conman, especially if you're aware of his actual occupation. At least Moscow knew that much. Is it sad that I respected him for it?

"It's hard, I know. We all have our regrets," I said.

Moscow looked pensive, still huffing away on that cigar of his. I sat up from my chair, swatted him across the shoulder, and laughed.

"But we're not robbing the national mint because we're saints, yeah?"

The older man laughed along but there was still that distance in his eyes. Whatever Denver did probably gave Moscow no choice but to rope him into the heist. Maybe he murdered a man. Probably not, though. Hopefully not.

"Even without his mother, I don't regret having him. Never did. He's rash, impatient, bit dull. Good-hearted but not good at much."

Moscow paused to put out his smoke and, for the first time this evening, he smiled.

"I love my stupid son so much."

Something twisted in my gut. I have no idea what it was, but some feelings have an appearance. This one felt like how The Hunchback of Notre Dame looked. Regardless, I kept my tone light.

"Careful," I laughed, "he might decide to sleep in the car if he heard you calling him that."

"Oh, I say it to his face all the time."

"Generous _and_ honest. God's work, Moscow."

The front door clicked open; the orange-gold light spilt out from inside the villa's sitting room and onto the dark boards outside.

"Am I interrupting anything?"

Berlin stepped out and onto the porch, lifting a cigarette from a pack in Moscow's coat pocket. He lit it up and puffed a wispy cloud into the night sky. The team's tunneler rolled his eyes. I wanted to roll mine, too, but I remembered the fifty million euro bonus.

"You're interrupting my goodwill of not charging you five percent of your share for that cig," Moscow said.

"Do you want it back?" Berlin said, sinking his teeth into one end of it.

Moscow scrunched up his face and turned towards the front door. He muttered something I didn't quite catch and waved goodnight to me. While the man himself disappeared into the villa, the sentiment about his son lingered. He recognised Denver's shortcomings but loved him regardless.

After the door shut behind him, Berlin turned to me and offered the crook of his elbow.

What sort of father was Berlin to divorce not one, not two, but five women on the grounds of giving birth to 'nuclear warheads'? Probably not one a runaway bride could judge. We're all hired heathens here. 

"Shall we?" he said.

"Without a doubt."


	11. HEIST HOUR ONE

I followed Monica Gaztambide through the Royal Mint's third-floor corridor and into a meeting room.

The blonde, curly-haired secretary led me to a row of seats outside a line of offices. We passed whiteboards with daily printing goals, cork boards with workplace regulations tacked on, and walls covered with exemplar bank notes. Mint workers milled in and out of their rooms, sometimes pausing to give me a passing nod. Monica's heels clicked against the sound of the printing machines churning out bill after bill of legal tender.

I closed my eyes for a moment and took a deep breath, as though I really was Verda Romero—a seasoned economist ready for an interview, and not some criminal lusting over the _FLIP-FLIP-FLIP_ of money fresh off the press.

I'll be frank with you. I felt like a fox in a hen house, muzzled, but still in the same building with the meat and eggs. I've pulled a couple of loan cons out of the country but that's about as close as I ever got to the banking business.

"Please take a seat, Verda. The bank manager will hold your interview soon," she said.

Her tone was pleasant enough but I don't believe for a minute that she was aware of how tensely she held herself. Those pretty fingers of her were pressed white against her planner. Work stress? Maybe. I nodded and made a civil attempt at a smile.

"I look forward to meeting him," I said.

Monica disappeared out the door and I sunk into my seat. The cold leather of the office chair pressed against my back. My focus darted to the clock ticking on the wall inside the office opposite me. 10 AM.

There was still time before the rest of the robbers were due to enter the bank. That'd be time for me to make a head start on the head games, establish some basic rapport with the manager, maybe the pretty secretary, too. Although, befriending the grunts who oversee the technical aspects of printing cash is a lot more valuable than the suits who fuck around with payroll.

"For the last time, Monica, I'm busy and you're _dreaming_ if you think this is going to work out!"

A pig-faced man in a stuffy suit bristled when he barged in, Monica close behind him. I remembered those features from The Professor's lessons. This ray of sunshine was no other than Arturo Roman, Spain's Royal Mint manager.

"Prospective economist?" he grumbled, slapping a stack of papers onto the table, "fill these in."

To my surprise, Arturo didn't settle down behind the desk. Instead, he did a heel-face-turn and left the room. I plucked a fountain pen from my purse like a perfect little desk jockey candidate and began to write in fake personal details.

The blonde secretary sighed and began to draw the blinds in the room.

"Can I get you a glass of water?" she asked.

"That's kind of you but I'll be alright," I said, "if anything, it sounds like a rough day for you."

"No, no, I'm doing just fine," she said.

If The Professor was bad at lying to Berlin, Monica was absolutely atrocious at the delicate art of deception.

"Madam, it's okay to have bad days. I get it," I said, smiling up at her, "we're both women in an old boy's club. Girls gotta look out for each other, you know?"

The secretary laughed but even that melted away into a sad sort of resignation.

"I know it's an old boy's club but please don't worry about it. You're having a job interview. I'd hate to impose with my mistakes and cost you this opportunity."

"Oh, you're so professional. No wonder you're the secretary of the Royal Mint!" I laughed and handed her my forms, "I've finished."

"Wonderful. I'll give these to the manager and you'll begin your interview shortly. Please stay seated."

  


//

  
As it turns out, I did _not_ stay seated.

Gunfire exploded in the factory air and screaming echoed against the high ceilings like a discount opera house. My head would've hurt if it wasn't for the adrenaline kicking through me.

" _Don't move!_ " Tokyo shrieked in the lobby, " _Don't move or I'll fucking kill you!_ "

Oslo rounded the corner with his assault rifle's muzzle pointed straight in our faces. Monica screamed and backed away until she hit the wall and collapsed onto the ground as a shaking mess. Arturo scrambled up but, with one glance at the Serbian soldier, knew he couldn't escape. 

I stumbled off backwards from my chair, throwing my hands up and dropping the pen I was still holding while I backed into the corner with Monica.

"P-please don't hurt me. I have two children!" Well, I don't, but whatever. A girl's gotta paint a sympathetic picture.

"Out!" Oslo ordered.

  


//

  
As the team's wolf in sheep's clothing, I was shoved into line with the rest of the hostages. Rio scrambled towards me with 'my' blindfold.

It's a special little toy for a special little shit like me. Basically, it looks near-identical to the other blindfolds spare the subtle black embroidery on the backside of the mask. The functional difference is that mine was thin enough to see through if I focus.

And I happened to focus enough to see Tokyo rejoin our party with Allison Parker (plus the girl's boyfriend?) in tow.

I squinted, and the image of my ex standing in the centre of our commotion sharpened into view. Rio and Denver flanked him. All of them had their assault rifles hanging off their chests and the threat of violence between their teeth. Berlin cleared his throat and began his speech.

"First of all, good morning. I'm the one in charge."

A cordial enough introduction, but even the most beautiful words can't ease the fear of having weapons shoved in your face on a Friday morning.

"And first off, I want... to offer my apologies," he said, "really, this is not the way to end the week. But you're here as hostages. If you obey, I guarantee you'll leave here alive."

People around me burst into tears by his last sentence. The implicit understanding of 'if you disobey, I can't guarantee you'll live' was a shot to the gut in its own accord. Monica's hand clutched Arturo's until her knuckles went white.

Denver, Rio, and Berlin combed through our livestock. I watched my former fiancé fish out a worker's mobile phone with a notepad in the other hand. He printed 'ARIADNA CASCALES' onto the paper alongside her number and PIN. The young woman sobbed and turned away even though she wouldn't see anything regardless.

"You're our safe way out of here," he said to the hostages.

Berlin approached me next. His hands briefly brushed against me while he retrieved my burner phone.

"So, I'm going to protect you."

_But I need you to protect yourself, too, Andrés._


	12. JUDGE

"Are you really going to abort?"

Of course, Arturo's the father. Manager and secretary but I've only seen a gold wedding band on the man's hand. Tragically classical and usually unfortunate, although that's unlikely to measure up when your life is dangling between a semi-automatic and a red jumpsuit's thread.

"I'm sorry for what I said yesterday. It was out of line and I was an asshole," Arturo said, "I've never been very brave, you know?"

_I know._

"I've spent my whole life doing things other people wanted, never what I wanted."

_Make Arturo think he's in control if you need him. Noted._

The woman sitting between me and Arturo began to guzzle her water. Several others, finished with distributing the bottled water, also began to drink with too much vigour and sound. A few of the lines between the manager and the secretary were drowned out in the sound—except for one sentence.

"They're digging a tunnel."

I kept a straight face and drank from my water bottle. Moscow should've told the digging team that the tunnel was to be made in secret. A cursory glance at Arturo and a quick look at Monica showed the two sitting closely and leaning closer.

"They're got plastic explosives and gasoline. It's going to be a slaughte-."

" _Stand up!_ " Berlin.

"-we can call the police and tell them about the attack."

We rose to our feet and I strained to hear the rest of the exchange even though I could see Arturo's lips moving, I couldn't catch everything but a few choice words. Part of me cursed myself for not sitting closer to the two but the other part of me wanted to keep an angle with a clear view of Allison Parker.

"I have a phone—don't know how to get it," he said.

"I'll go," Monica whispered back, insistent.

"No. No, no, no."

The rest of the conversation dropped at the sight of Berlin pacing between the rows of hostages. With his eerie sense of timing, he stopped in front of Arturo and looked him dead in the eye.

"There's always a hero," he said, "who thinks he can save the others...."

Berlin turned away and continued to pace past our row of merry little captives. This time, he didn't make any more direct eye-contact with anyone else. He reached the second row and continued his little speech.

"...Who thinks no one will notice that he's plotting a way to contact the police."

His thoughtful tone lingered, heavy with the suggestion that he's dealt with countless would-be heroes—bright-eyed tellers who tried a little too late to hit an emergency button, old gentlemen whose bodies failed them when they got shot, young mothers who wanted to protect their children.

"Bravo."

Berlin clapped. The laudatory sound was hollow and, frankly, unnerving.

" _You made it._ "

"Congratulations! One of you succeeded and recorded footage inside and sent it to the police. I'd like to give him a chance to step forwards so you can all thank him," Berlin levelled a blank stare at us, "and for him to hand the phone over to me."

"Helsinki! Undress him" Berlin barked, gesturing at an old man standing unfortunately in front of him.

Helsinki, bless his soul, seized the man and worked with methodical efficiency. I frowned at the situation. Yes, we covered thieves' cant as a group with the Professor. There was specific code disguised as ordinary hostage babble for conveying messages. Buuut, interrupting a frisk would raise suspicions unless I could bullshit a convincing reason faster than Berlin leaves his wives.

"Are you sick or what?" Tokyo hissed at Berlin.

All Berlin responded with was a slight nod (not of agreement, more of acknowledgment), a flash of his eyebrows, and a verbal slap on the wrist. "Pay attention," he said and approached Monica with the uncanny intuition of a shark tracking a bleeding calf.

"Denver," he said, "undress her."

I balled up my fists and knitted my brows together like a concerned desk jockey while rifling through ideas about how to alert the team that; yes, there's a cellphone, but it's elsewhere right now. My former fiancé pulled away and stopped in front of our VIP hostage.

"You recorded a video inside the phone room, right?" Berlin asked Allison.

The ambassador's daughter didn't respond.

_Ziiip!_ He pulled down the front zipper of her jumpsuit. A feasible idea finally showed itself. I rehearsed a few variations of the same line before stepping forwards and breaking traditional formation.

"Stop. Please, stop," I pleaded Berlin.

He froze, the room hung on my silence. Rio's shoulders sagged with relief. Tokyo frowned at my outburst. Berlin turned to face me, a mock smile splayed clear across his face. God. Sometimes I don't know where his bravado stops and where his actual self begins.

"I'm begging you to please have mercy for the minor. She's still young and vulnerable. At least ask one of your women to search her."

Further from me, Monica gasped for air and begged Denver to be taken to be with the other girls.

"Search me first if you must."

A moment's pause. The smile tightened on his face for a second. My head raced with the idea that maybe Andrés didn't want to take advantage of our power difference and that I've put him in a difficult position—since he prides himself on being a gentleman and all that.

He stared straight into my eyes like how he warned Arturo of the lie detector in his head. Except there was a subtle degree of difference. Where Arturo was seen as an issue, I was a challenge; a skeleton who clambered out of the closet, daring him to brush his fingers against me unless he wants me to disappear again.

Then, it was gone.

Berlin's expression went back to his charismatic leader act. He laughed and looped an arm around my waist.

"Of course," he said, "how could I deny a lady?"


	13. JUDGE (II)

Berlin made a show of circling me like a vulture descends on its dead prey. He chuckled and I spotted Tokyo rolling her eyes in disgust at the display. Rio averted his gaze, probably in discomfort; Helsinki was either too focused on searching the other hostages or just didn’t care enough to show it.

I took a deep breath like I was preparing myself and ended up getting a good whiff of his trademark cologne. Citrus mixed with black pepper, nutmeg, and smoke. Guerlain’s 1959 vintage _Vetiver_.

Goddamnit, Andrés. I loved that fragrance and I still do. Bright, dapper, and careful not to hit those brooding subterranean notes which most men’s colognes do—all brought together with the meatier tobacco burn. God knows I hate cigs but that bottle could sell it to me. The scent smelt exactly like how it did when I borrowed the bottle and sprayed it onto my coat after he spent one too many nights at my place.

“I like the brave ones,” he mused, snapping me out of it, “really, I do.”

No one likes a coward and no one likes a con-artist who gets distracted from her job while in front of forty-some hostages.

Avoiding eye-contact with my ex, I glanced at Allison Parker and flashed her an encouraging smile. She didn’t bother even trying to meet my gaze. I went back to staring at the space ahead of me.

Shit, it’s not every day that a con artist puts aside her dignity to save someone the suffering of being searched, but what do I know?

I balled up my fists; shed my Sarnai name, banished the little Mongolian girl who dreamt of living larger, living faster outside the cold of Ulaanbaatar; and focused on being Verda Romero, a respected economist from a reputable background.

“I-I just don’t think it’s fair for a schoolgirl to go through this. Crime costs society more than how much it can benefit you. This is unjust and I won’t stand for it.”

Berlin laughed and, if it weren’t for the fact that I knew he wasn’t going to behead me, my blood would’ve ran cold. He leaned into me from behind and I felt his breath tickle my neck. The hand around my waist curled tighter by just a touch and his other brushed against my right hand.

“Fairness and justice in a robbery? You’re preaching to the deaf.”

I bet he’d love to lay me dead like a dog on the highway. Maybe after we tumble into bed one last time for old time’s sake.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“It’s Verda, sir.”

“ _Verda, verdades, verdad_ \- truth,” he said, rattling through the different Spanish words for the same idea,“I don’t suppose you believe honesty is always the best policy?”

What is this? An attack on my life choices and career decisions? But, yes, I chose the name for ironic value—there wasn’t any need to point it out, though.

“Honesty’s always a good choice,” I said.

“Then I’ll be honest,” Berlin said.

The room plunged a few degrees when he stood in front of me once more. This time, he held my jumpsuit’s zip between his fingers. He toyed with it so it shone under the royal mint’s lights. He flashed me a vicious smile brighter than the reflection on my zipper.

“I don’t see why anyone would believe in justice...”

With deliberate and painful slowness, Berlin began to drag the zip down my torso. He took care not to press against me while it slipped a little down my shoulders and left some of my skin bare in the foyer. I shivered against my will. It was chilly but, more than the cold, something about this entire interaction felt twisted.

My heartbeat hitched for a second when I felt the weight of my red beretta sag down, but Berlin was ready for it and he continued with misdirection.

“... Not when it changes so quickly...”

With one swift sweep of his right arm, he pulled the top of the jumpsuit down in a single, fluid motion. The red beretta laid hidden within the folds of it. My heartbeat resumed its normal speed but I was still all too aware of how exposed I was to everyone. As much as I love myself, I’m not going to lie and say I look like a model. Not having children means less stress, less stress is less of a toll on your looks, but age takes no prisoners.

Oh well, money is money and robbing a royal mint isn’t something to be scoffed at. My ex, who hasn’t seen me for nearly a decade, didn’t betray a twinge on that face of his. He continued on.

“ _Not when it was fair to have black slaves less than a hundred years ago._ ”

I was standing in my bra. My jumpsuit crumpled down.

“Not when it is fair for a man to be paid more than a woman for the same job today.”

Finally, I looked up and straight into Berlin’s waiting gaze. For a mad moment, it felt like he was talking both in and out of his leader persona.

“Not when what’s fair today could be unfair tomorrow.”

His words hung in the air like a broken promise. I fell into something pensive. Was this still an attack on how I chose to leave him on our wedding day? Shit, when is he going to get over that? When am I going to stop being a self-absorbed piece of shit? Probably not today, to be fair. And, just like that, I felt like a dolphin who finally submerged herself back into water once I continued with being Verda.

“I want to be honest too,” I admitted, staring him hard in the eye.

“I’m scared,” I said, which was thieves’ cant for ‘I’ve got information’.

“In fact, if I’m going to be frank, I feel like I could cry right now,” the exact verb is unimportant but the shorter the duration means the more urgent it is. Monica Gaztambide was already escorted out of the main lobby. Who knows if she found the phone Arturo was talking about.

“But, I know God has plans for me,” which was code for ‘there’s an escape plan’, “for Him, I must rescue the weak and needy; deliver them from the hand of the wicked.”

The later part of the sentence is random chitchat made to bolster the idea that whatever I’m saying isn’t strung up with code only the robbers know. I stepped forwards and indignantly puffed out my chest like how someone like Verda would. What caught me by surprise was how I didn’t even voice the last line of straight bullshit I prepared.

_For Him, I have undying strength and unwavering faith._

 

 

 

//

 

_You know what Berlin did? He told Denver to kill a hostage. Berlin broke the first rule The Professor made._

_He told me to kill her because he didn’t want to get his hands dirty. Fucking bastard._

Tokyo and Denver’s voices replayed in my head. I leaned back on the wheelie chair in some unoccupied office I stole away in. It was a well-deserved but not officially sanctioned break from the shitshow I heard since snitching Monica out to my ex. The cubicle lights flickered and fizzed a bit but I busied myself with chewing through an unopened box of I found hidden in the staffroom.

Part of me wondered if I’d be considered an accessory to murder, given that I practically plated up steak straight for the lion’s mouth. Then, another part of me wondered why I even cared, why I shivered when he pulled down my jumpsuit even though we’ve dressed and undressed countless times in the past.

I bit down on whatever chocolate I popped into my mouth last. Passionfruit, I think. Philosophy could wait.

__Tap-tap-tap!_ _

Falling footsteps, the sound of sprinting up a corridor. Probably Tokyo running for backup. I stirred and rose to my feet with a reluctant kick to slide the wheelie chair back under its desk. Duty calls.


	14. JURY

It was a long day. 

 

Helsinki shoved me back into the room with the especially skittish girls, a school teacher, and our VIP hostage, Allison Parker. He called another one of the hostages, Ariadna, out to swap with me before I even managed to sit down by the rest of the hostages.

 

A brunette cringed when I slid onto one of the mint’s many leather couches. The sound was disruptively loud when the atmosphere was thick with apprehension. Oslo perched at the front of the room like a gargoyle. His gun sat ready for him on his left. Its unspeaking presence

 

I won’t lie, I was still interested in one of those things called apologies or ‘thank you’s from Allison—but it must be good living as the British ambassador’s daughter and all. It’s nice having that fancy meat shield keeping the special forces out and the money in. Must be an awful field trip for her but, hey, not my problem.

 

“We’re one woman short,” the school teacher, murmured under her breath. Her body curled in on itself like coil under pressure when she tried to edge closer to her student, Allison, “you mustn’t take any unnecessary risks. We’re locked in with a group of psychopaths.”

 

Cue various sounds and nods of agreement.

 

“I think they killed her—and they missed on their first shot,” Allison said, voice devoid of feeling.

 

One of the other girls in the group started tensing up. Her eyes glazed over with that thin, glassy look right before tears start streaming down your face. She cracked open her lips and said, “No. No, no, no. I don’t want to die, I don’t wanttodie, idontwanttodietoda–.”

 

“Shh!” I said, planting two solid hands on her shoulders, “look at me. We’re not going to die because we’ll stay quiet and off their radar. No one is going to shoot us because no one is going to notice us in the first place.”

 

“I CAN’T BREATHE. GOD HELP ME.”

 

_Oh, for fuck’s sake._

 

With as much stealth as I could muster, I scrambled closer from my seat to kneel in front of the anxious girl. Her mousey nose scrunched up and I swore I could see the colour leaving her face. I clasped her hands in mine and feigned an encouraging smile. Verda needs to be the saint I’ll never be. The saint who conveniently knows how to calm down a neurotic mark because they’re a little too close to realising they’re doomed. I made a silent prayer to Oslo that he wouldn’t cut it short in case the girl actually had an ailment on top of the panic attack.

 

“Hey, hey, this is all temporary. It’s not going to last forever. Let’s talk about school, instead,” I cooed, “What’s your name, sweetie? Can you tell me about your friends?”

 

“My… My name is Silvia… I’m friends with Angela, Aurora, and Pablo.”

 

Allison, my primary focus, tensed at the mention of Pablo. Who was he to her?

 

“This is stupid,” Allison said to her teacher, Mercedes, “I hope the robbers blow their cover to the police soon. I’m ready to go back to school.”

 

I nodded at Silvia and, like a hunter to his foxhound, focused on guiding her to flush out the prize.

 

“Pablo? That’s a name with rich history—painting, poetry, football. Picasso, Neruda, Ibanez.”

 

Silvia cracked a smile at this. She said, “my friend Pablo is the athletics captain at our school.”

 

“He’s also the captain of being a jerk. Your ‘friend’ posted an embarrassing photo of me onto my Instagram,” Allison snapped.

 

I flashed a practiced face of shock and offence. So, this teenage boy was the reason why Allison was trying to film a video of herself in the phone room, AND (indirectly) the reason why Rio and Tokyo’s identities were leaked? Both ridiculous and completely expected.

 

“He wouldn’t hav-!” Silvia protested.

 

“He did!” Allison hissed back, volume creeping beyond a simple whisper.

 

Allison: no one but the FBI cares about the viewers. Their teacher rushed to try and put distance between the two schoolgirls. Hell, even I leaned towards Allison in vain attempt to hush her but I was too slow. A heavy hand slammed onto the wooden desk at the front of the room.

 

“SILENCE!” Oslo ordered and, once again, we plunged into limbo.

 

Allison threw one last, dirty look at Silvia. She narrowed those glassy, doe-like eyes and curled her lips to mouth a clear message:

 

You’ll see.

 

 

//

 

 

Now on an officially endorsed break, I followed Helsinki, head bowed, like an obedient hostage until we stepped into the mint’s break room.

 

Nairobi and Berlin lounged on the seats. Nairobi stirred a silver spoon in her cup of tea, cigarette squeezed between her fingers while she outlined the current printing progress. Berlin’s back faced me but he tilted his head and flashed me an upside down smile as our team’s forger talked. Smoke plumed around both of them, grey against the slip of white between my ex’s lips.

 

I made a beeline for the pantry. Coffee, tea, it didn’t really matter. As long as I got my caffeine. Unfortunately, I hardly took half a dozen steps before Nairobi finished her report and Berlin spoke up.

 

“Helsinki! Thank you for bringing in my favourite hostage.”

 

“Is not a problem,” Helsinki explained, “she has a break now so I brought her.”

 

The Serb beamed with pride and turned to leave. Denver strode past the door, his face knitted in an uncharacteristically concerned expression. Part of me wanted to call out and greet the guy but the larger part of me wanted that bonus payment, which meant trying to stay on at least okay terms with Andrès.

 

Speaking of which.

 

Berlin rose to his feet, smile still pulled like a weapon on that face, and approached me.

 

“Well, there can only be so many of us having a break at once, no? Don’t want the lambs to get too comfortable.”

 

He seized me by the shoulders like he was a magician and I was his lovely assistant who wooed his patrons that night.

 

“Volunteer more often, Cairo,” he cooed, “be my guest.”

 

My hands locked themselves around his face and tilted his head down so we were a breath apart. Berlin’s breath got caught in his throat and I smiled despite myself.Any closer and we might as well be kissing.

 

“But no one likes a repeat performance,” I said.

 

He sneered, a ghost of a smile still on his face, and he was gone.

 

The room was quiet again after he left it. I poured myself piping hot coffee and busied myself with cutting an apple waiting for my drink to cool down.

 

“God, you two are fucking crazy,” Nairobi said from her seat.

 

I stopped chopping up fruit for a second to laugh at the incredulity of the statement. Well, yes. That’s probably why it never worked out. But that doesn’t matter right now.

 

I bit into once of the apple slices. It was cold, sweet juice in the middle of this organised shitstorm.

 

“Yeah, so are you. Who even agrees to rob a fucking mint?” I said.

 

“Ahhh, touché, touché!”

 

The plate shone after I scarfed down the rest of the apple while still holding the knife. Denver entered the room, took one look around the place, and began to leave. With my ex gone, I saw my chance and took it.

 

“Denver, where are you going?”

 

“Ahh, uh, back to my shift.”

 

Nairobi quirked a thick, beautiful eyebrow and I felt more laughter beginning to bubble up in my gut.

 

“Slow down. Aren’t you meant to be replacing Nairobi on break?”

 

Denver began to say something but the words jumbled into an incoherent mess. He grabbed two fistfuls of his hair, cursed, and whirled around to leave. Nairobi scrambled up to sit straight and call out to him.

 

“It’s no good to push yourself like that, Denver! Come back!”

 

“I’ll be off to get him,” I said.

 

Nairobi made a sound of frustrated resignation and I put the plate aside, picking up just a tiny bit of speed to leave the staff room. Stepping past her, I was about to open the door.

 

“Cairo.”

 

“Yes, Nairobi?”

 

“Why is there blood on your jumpsuit?”

 

 

 

 


	15. EXECUTIONER

“Why is there blood on your jumpsuit?”

I glanced down at the red on red. It wasn’t anything dramatic, just a couple of small splatters near my shin I somehow missed earlier. Of course, Nairobi would notice this shit. God bless no one else picked up.

“Hell, this is why you’re the team’s forger, eh?” I laughed and didn’t break stride, “I cut myself on the apple knife. Must’ve dripped. I was hoping no one would have to see the fuck up.”

Her eye roll was almost audible.

“You should change into a new suit in case one of the hostages notices.”

“Should I? Or should I tell them I have a really bad period and that I’m feeling like I might shank someone?”

Nairobi snorted and I took this as my cue to leave.

 

 

 

//

 

 

The door to my favourite little office creaked open with a start. I ducked inside.My expression melted into the classic ‘concerned white-collar professional’ mask.   


“Hey, how’re you holding up?” I whispered into the mostly-dark room.

Trembling behind the office desk and trying her hardest to fold herself into nothingness was no one other than Monica Gaztambide. Her face was gaunt with sickness and her blonde hair plastered against it, stuck to the skin from sweat. The gunshot wound in her leg oozed in a thick, glistening mess. She didn’t respond so I crept closer. My hand hovered near where the red beretta was in case she made any sudden moves. 

“Is everything okay?” I said, “I finished checking the hallways. We can both escape if we play our cards right.”

Monica tilted her head to look up at me with those glassy brown eyes. They were red-rimmed and, in the scarce light, tear trails marked her cheeks. Her voice came out in broken sobs. 

“...Are you going to shoot me, Verda?”

Just like that, Verda Romero evaporated and left this fugitive in a Dali mask behind. Fuck. I knew it was a reach to try and keep playing the hostage angle when I ran out to the corridor (and into her) thinking she was Tokyo.

Dipping my fingers into my pant pocket, I pulled out the kitchen knife from earlier. The stainless steel glinted nicely when turned back and forth in the cracks of light through the blinds. We made eye contact and I smiled at her. She flinched when I flashed my teeth.

“I’m not in a rush,” I said.

 _Do con-artists ever get imposter syndrome?_

Wheels rattled when I grabbed the office chair from beside the desk and spun it around so that I leaned over the front of the backrest. The knife stayed in clear view, though. Monica was trembling and I scoffed. I deserve a pay raise for needing to do damage control on someone else’s secret, botched execution.

“Please, I’m begging you, spare me. If you want money, I can pay you. You can take my phone and wire yourself however much you want!”

This was going to get messy soon.

“Tell me what you know about the Mongol Empire,” I said, knife hand raised a little higher and smile spread a little brighter.

Her mouth moved but no words came out. Seconds ticked by on the wall clock. Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen. Yes, I could’ve blurted out some answers, but pressuring someone to give an answer instils a degree of risk and anticipation on their side. A hostage scared of making the wrong move is an invested hostage—and an invested hostage is an obedient hostage.

“It was the biggest land empire in history. F-from China to India to Italy. Even Russia.”

I nodded.

“It’s because the _khagan_ incentivised killing,” I said, “the first rule of economics, right? People respond to incentives. The more heads you collect, the more you were recognised as a great soldier.” 

“Severed heads were tied by their hair. They were used as war trophies, negotiation weapons, even toys for children. Shit, it was a bloodbath—do you know soldiers even had a favourite type of victim?” 

“Pregnant women were precious. Kill her and it’s a two-for-one deal.”

Monica stopped trembling and sat frozen. I leaned forward, laughed, and leaned back again.

“It’s okay, Monica! You’re not nearly pregnant enough for that.”

With my boot, I nudged the pile of computer wires between the desk and us. Monica’s gaze snapped to attention like I wanted. 

“Undo that cable tie for me,” I ordered.

She bent over the pile, breathing ragged and hands slipping on their sweat. I stayed perched on the chair with my focus fixed on her. The moment she finished, I snapped my fingers and gestured for her to hand it over to me.

“Put your hands together for me. Try anything and I’ll put your head in the lobby.”

Monica nodded and complied. Tension I didn’t know I had fled my chest once I secured her wrists. 

“Close your eyes. Don’t open them until I say so.”

The blindfolds were in a labeled box tucked away in Berlin’s office, which was too far for me to feasibly access without drawing attention to this glaring issue. I took my knife and cut out a generous strip of her jumpsuit’s leg. It’d have to do.

Monica felt the fabric against her face and tears began to run. With a final tug, I tied the makeshift blindfold over her eyes. Good. At least that much was easy. I picked up the knife again. The handle was warm in my grip. The tip was sharp against Monica’s throat.

_Shit. What if she screams?_

Her jumpsuit’s red fabric squealed as I cut out another generous patch and gagged her with it. Unlike a blindfold, there wasn’t much guaranteeing she wouldn’t spit out the stupid thing at an awful moment, though.

I rose to my feet and pulled open the desk’s drawers. Surely someone kept duct tape somewhere, right? Files rattled under my fingers. Paper clips, pens, dated brochures, a strip of gum.

 _Shit_.

Monica began to kick on the ground. Fear of being slaughtered like a pig, probably. The silence from me wouldn’t be helpful, either.

I yanked open the next drawer. There was a random photo of a couple, a squashed desk calendar from last year, some scrunched up paper balls—but no duct tape.

“What the _fuck_ are you doing, Cairo?!”

The door to the office flew open with a start. Denver stood there, gun barrel pointed square at my head. Blue eyes burned like a bitter winter. His old man, Moscow, scrambled into view soon after him; his chest rose and fell as he wrestled with catching his breath.

 

 

//

 

 

“What does it look like? I’m cleaning up your mess because apparently you’d be happy to shoot a comrade but you missed a would-be escapee at point-blank,” I said.

With Monica bound and gagged inside the adjacent office, I found myself with Denver and Moscow. Denver paced back and forth in the room. His voice rattled towards a louder and louder volume with every step.

“You blindfolded her, gagged her, and tied her wrists like an animal! Do you know how long it’d take to kill her with a knife?” Denver shrieked.

“I was going to throw her in the boiler room where she’d eventually get some friends to join her.”

“You were going to kill her,” Moscow said, “that’s why you were holding a knife instead of pointing your gun. You knew my son would’ve had to take the blame for it.”

“And leave a body with unhealed cut marks and an old bullet wound? I’m hurt.”

Denver slammed the desk. Both his papa and I jumped.

“Oh, _you’re_ hurt? That’s what’s on your mind? Tell me the fucking truth, Cairo: do you ever—even for one second—think about people apart from yourself?”

I stared at the brawler for a mad second. He was speaking Spanish but it may as well have been Ancient Greek with how foreign it felt. Regardless, I shook off the momentary sensation. I thought about it and I’m still unsure why Denver thinks he’s a model for morality.

Not when he could well have followed orders and pulled a killing blow if Monica was older, uglier, not pregnant, or maybe even a man. Beautiful people enjoy a halo effect. We’re all idiots who associate beauty with health, honesty, virtue, among a slew of other ridiculous assumptions society teaches us.

“You want a professional liar to be honest with you?” I said, “I’m hurt.”

Denver whipped out his pistol and jammed it straight in my chest. It brought me back to how my ex pressed my beretta into my back. Except I could well see that there was a weapon with live ammunition this time around.

“Shut up. I’ve hidden her before. I can keep hiding her,” Denver said.

Moscow looked away but I could see the worry in his reflection. There wouldn’t be any fighting my way out of this situation. I was the worst shot in the team and I didn’t even have a fucking real gun on me.

I should’ve been smarter about sneaking breaks. If I didn’t step out into the corridor when I heard the footfalls I thought were Tokyo’s (but were Monica’s) then this fucking mess wouldn’t be my problem.

“You’re right. I could’ve done things differently. So could’ve all of us,” I said, “let’s talk about it before someone notices we’re all missing from our posts.” 

I took a deep breath.

“We should talk to Berlin about this.”


	16. KNIFE IN A GUNFIGHT

"A secret hostage between the three of us is a lot of work. Berlin can divvy up everyone's shifts," I said, making my way towards the office exit.

Denver seized me by my shoulder and shoved me away from the door. I stumbled backwards, my hands grabbed for anything secure, and I ended up clinging onto a filing cabinet. My nails skid on the cold metal. Shit, it's not often that I have to swallow the urge to curse.

"Talk to Berlin? That's fucking crazy and you know it! He told me to execute Monica and I couldn't do it. That psychopath's gonna send Helsinki and Oslo onto me," Denver snapped, "He had those Serbs go all Vietnam on Rio with the automatic trigger off their guns. It was a firing squad!"

His voice was getting higher pitched and it was starting to crack. Moscow stood not too far from him, conflicted about whether he should talk or listen.

"Berlin that  _motherfucker's_  gonna kill me himself!"

"Come on now, Denver. Why would he do that? You're a steady hand. The team's short on firepower."

"Shut up! You're only saying that because you're a shit shot and you want someone to cover your ass once you're in trouble."

"Son. This isn't the time to be making more enemies," Moscow warned.

"Then what, papa? Should we all hold hands and sing fucking friendship songs? Because I think she'd like that a lot. It'd give her more time to try and weasel her way out of this. She was gonna kill Monica and I would've taken the fall for it."

"We can try to figure out a way to keep watch over the secretary. We're all in trouble, the hostage included, everyone has a reason to cooperate and keep quiet about it," Moscow said.

"Thank you!" Denver said, shoulders sagging back to normal once the tension left them, "that means no-one's leaving the room until we figure out a plan to keep her hidden from the rest of the team."

I felt like I was lying down on train tracks and letting a father-son duo tie me up. Yeah, hiding Monica from the rest of the team would clearly benefit the two of them but—if things went to shit—hostages are going to know about me while I have no idea that they do. I'd be a sitting duck. Even someone like Arturo could use me as leverage against the rest of the team if they incapacitated me in my sleep. I might as well have earplugs while tied down on the rails because I won't have any idea when the train would splatter me on the ground until I lose my legs.

"Berlin isn't going to murder you. If he was a killer, why didn't he execute Monica himself? Why take the risk and make someone else do it?"

"Because... because it was a show of power!"

_Fucking. God._

I needed to reconsider my options since negotiation was going as well as sandpaper on skin. What did I have on me at the moment? A replica gun, which every robber knows doesn't shoot bullets; and a kitchen knife. I could attack Denver but he'd blow my guts out in half a second. No one would be surprised about it, either. The guy's about a decade younger than me and he could throw a solid punch.

But, I didn't have to attack him. Nor did I have to attack  _him_.

Moscow stood about two steps away from me. His gun was still holstered. The old man was probably well into his fifties—if not his sixties. If I could get close enough, I could whip my knife to his throat and threaten Denver with his own dad. If they're both convinced one of the mint's employees would've died by my hand, it'd be easy to sell the idea that I could end a robber's life. Especially because the public only cares about whether or not we kill  _hostages_.

"Okay, you know what? I see your point," I said, careful to keep my tone neutral and relaxed, "I panicked when I thought my cover might've been blown. It's more useful to have me as a mole than as an official robber and I was scared that I wasn't going to be up to scratch. I know I'm far from a good shot and..."

"...and I don't want to be the reason if this heist fails."

With my back to both of them, I settled down on one of the office chairs in the room and put the knife on my lap. The chair spun, languidly, like a snake curling up to nap after a meal. Denver cocked his head, eyes narrowed with suspicion and intrigue. Moscow still stood a little far off.

"Truthfully, not everyone in the team was a stranger to me when I joined," I said.

"What the hell do you mean?" Denver asked.

I took a deep breath. To be fair, I haven't told anyone (but a conman who I may-or-may-not have left Andrés for) about our old relationship.

"Berlin and I... We..."

"You fucked? You didn't look close during training."

"Look, I don't want to goddamn shout it out loud," I hissed, patting the nearby seat and gesturing at the two to take a seat, "do you want to hear it or not?"

Denver scrambled to take the opposite seat and leaned forward across the desk. The semi-automatic on his chest clacked against the wood. His calloused hands were pressed white against the office desk. Moscow ambled towards me and I nodded at him. The older man sat down beside me and I hunched forward, careful to keep my voice lowered and conspiratorial.

"I would've been Berlin's first wife—had I not fucked him over."

I watched their expressions slacken in shock and that was enough for what I needed.

_SWISH!_

In a silver-white flash, I whipped the kitchen knife up against Moscow's neck and yanked him flush against me. Moscow yelled out a curse and I vaguely heard Monica falling flat on the ground from fear in the adjacent office.

"You're mistaken if you think I won't fuck him around again."

I pulled the knife tighter against Moscow's throat. He cried out and I stopped digging into his flesh. From my angle, I had no visual idea of how far the blade was going in. No feeling of blood running down my fingers yet, though, but I didn't need to kill our only method of getting out with the cash. Denver's face warped from shock to disbelief to utter hatred in a heartbeat.

"Shit, it's a match made in hell. You're both sons of bitches," Denver spat.

"Thank you. Now call Berlin over or your dad dies."

 

 

//

 

 

"Cairo, you're taking your role of being a hostage so  _seriously_."

Berlin breezed into the office. If he noticed Monica lying on the ground in the dark when he walked past the other room two seconds ago, he didn't make any sign of it. Denver followed him in and stared holes into the wall behind me. I watched his jaw lock and unlock with resentment.

"If you wanted my attention, you could've just called my name like ' _Berlin_ , please!'," he made a show of fanning himself like a damsel. Then he laughed and propped himself on the same chair Denver was sitting on less than five minutes ago, "I see you're hard at work practising hostage negotiation but I'm very busy and I have a heist to mind."

My arm was starting to get sore so I lowered the knife and Moscow reeled away from me. He didn't stop moving until he reached the doorway, where he stared at me with that hard, judgmental look in those old brown eyes. Is that a superpower fathers just develop overnight? My own dad had a similar look when I told him I was leaving Mongolia.

I set the weapon on the table and stretched my fingers. No one tells you about how strenuous crime is.

"You need to control Cairo. This isn't the right mindset for group work." Moscow muttered.

"Hiding a hostage isn't the right mindset for group work either," I said.

"My son isn't a killer!"

Denver's expression hardened while Berlin smiled and reclined on his seat. I described it as a smile but, because this is my ex-fiancé we're discussing, it's more like a show of teeth than a smile as most people understand it. Still devastatingly handsome, though. Berlin may have aged but he still managed a devilish charm.

"Hiding a hostage?" Berlin asked.

"Monica Gaztambide is alive, blindfolded, and bound in the office beside us. She saw me as a robber, though. It's unsafe to let her run around or regroup with the other hostages."

"This shit wouldn't have happened if you didn't sneak off on a break you weren't meant to have," Denver said.

"Or if you executed her like you were told to," I said.

"Ah, Cairo, Cairo, Cairo. Being so agitated is a bad look for you."

Berlin reached out for the knife on the table. His hand shook as he curled his fingers around the handle. I blinked at the sight. It wasn't like him to tremble in front of weapons. Let alone a kitchen knife. The only times I remembered him shaking were from anger and betrayal. Maybe again when he shrugged off his coat during a Russian winter for me and murmured to me (in fogged-up breath) that nothing compares to seeing me wearing his clothes.

"On earth, we're briefly beautiful," he said, squinting into his shaking reflection on the stainless steel, "life is fleeting. One minute we're here and the next we're lying on our backs with cold dirt heaved on our chests."

The trembling in his hands stopped when he put the knife down on his side of the desk. There was a sharp  _clack!_ as it settled. Moscow flinched in my peripherals.

"On one hand, I should punish all of you for disobedience. Denver, for going against my orders and not killing the woman. Moscow, for colluding with him. Cairo, for slacking off."

Years ago, I leaned over the balcony of our apartment with a flute of champagne when I watched Andrés pop an old colleague's kneecaps. Five storeys was too high to notice any blood—but it was low enough to watch the man crumple and crash on the asphalt, cradling his broken knees like a mother holds her dying child. Twenty minutes later, my then-fiancé let himself into our dining room with a bouquet of tiger lilies. He propped fresh flowers into the marble vase with his usual smile as though the summary mafia-style assault of a former teammate was casual work.

"On the other hand, a dead woman is alive! It's Resurrection Day. And that's cause to celebrate, no?"

He bit his lip and I watched as the corners of it curled up in amusement. Denver shifted from foot to foot, his gaze constantly darted from Berlin to the door as though expecting Helsinki and Oslo to burst in a rain of gunfire. Moscow stood stock still in the corner of the room. The silence hung in the air.

"...How would you propose we commemorate this occasion, captain?" I said.

The corners of Berlin's eyes crinkled while he chuckled. Probably because I called him 'captain' even though that is his title.

"We can all party with Monica in the boiler room—because she'll remain dead to the rest of the hostages."

He still smiled sweetly at me when he drummed his fingers on the desk.

"Denver, get out of my sight before I shoot you in the foot for missing a woman at point-blank. Moscow, escort Miss Gaztambide to her new room," he said, voice deadpan, "and, Cairo..."

Berlin's voice trailed off as he waited for the father-son pair to leave the room.

"Do you have a speech prepared to persuade me or am I going have to punish you right here, right now?"

 


	17. OLD PAINS

Did my ears deceive me or did my ex-fiancé give me an opening to  _talk_ my way out of trouble? I felt like a prisoner who was just handed an entire ring of jail keys. Shit. Did he  _want_ me to get out trouble? What happened after I left him on wedding day? Maybe he fell and hit his head. Hard.

Maybe it was a fake choice. Either he gets straight to business with whatever he’s got planned—or I take time to try and persuade him while Helsinki and Oslo gear up with the big guns. I thought the three of us were friends but I suppose following orders is more important than following friendships in these trying times.

“You know me. I’d love to give a speech but this worker office is probably the least inspiring place for it,” I said, “can’t we go to your personal office? The director’s suite would be a lot more appropriate.”

I watched his index finger sink into his bottom lip when he chuckled at my request. Part of me wondered if I pushed my luck too far.

“Of course, Ms. Romero. Please lead the way to your prospective employer’s private office.”

Ms. Romero? As in Verda Romero? Bizarre. I flashed him a professional smile and nodded at him to follow. His jumpsuit rustled when unholstered his gun and pretended to escort me while I resumed my hostage persona.

 

 

//

 

 

Arturo’s grand office doors swung shut behind us. I remained standing while Berlin resumed his usual seat on his black leather, corporate throne. A glass clacked on the desk. Berlin poured himself a drink and made eye-contact with me while he downed it. His Adam’s apple bobbed and I felt a smile curl on my lips.

“Sit down,” he said, pointing at the nearby executive seat.

I did as I was told. The smile promptly melted away when he retrieved the kitchen knife I threatened Moscow and Denver with. With his head tilted back, he eyed the craftwork of the blade like he was assessing the effectiveness of it as a murder weapon.

“You’re a clever woman, Cairo,” he said, “reporting Miss Gaztambide’s survival to me was the right choice.”

Berlin leaned forward and arched his brows in feigned shock.

“But shirking your duties isn’t something I take lightly. You endanger my life—and all our colleagues’s—with an unseen weapon.”

‘An unseen weapon’? Leave it to Andrés and his flowery speech. I planted both hands on the table and leaned back against the chair. He could’ve poured me a glass of whatever’s he had, too. Some booze wouldn’t be amiss.

_Thwack!_

Berlin stabbed the knife down. The blade plunged in the gap between my second and middle finger. I jumped and cursed in Mongolian. The strike was close enough I felt a gust of air rush against my hand.

“False security strikes like a knife in the neck,” he hissed.

Or like an amputated finger, I suppose.

I cleared my throat and tried to clear my head in case I slurred a string of my native curses.  _Tsusaar gooj, Andrés_  - bleed like a river, Andrés. Whatever material I was rehearsing in my head on the way to Arturo’s office left me when that knife nearly took part of my hand.

“I’m sorr-,” I began, in Spanish.

“I hope your hostage negotiation practice paid off because this is a heist at its core,” he said, “and I have a counter-request.”

“Beg for your life in Russian.”

He picked up the bottle again and refilled his glass. I covered my face with the hand that wasn’t a centimetre off losing a finger and probably made a face of stress.

If my day was bad before; it was shit now. This bastard knew Russian is one of my less maintained languages. Linguistics, unfortunately, was also a subject he was historically talented with. The man managed to bed his French professor as an eighteen year old, for crying out loud. Unfortunately for him, I know how to throw a low blow when cornered.

I lowered my hand. Now I wore a tragic smile like a beautiful dress.

“... _Every time I speak in Russian, I think about you_.”

Berlin put down his drink to snort at my comment. He waved a dismissive hand at me, “Flattery will get you everywhere.”

This is exactly like I wanted him. My poor, prideful sweetheart. I quirked a brow like he made a genuine, hurtful attack on my character and said, “ _But, a compliment’s the best thing you can give with money, yeah?_ ”

“ _It got me my first job with the Russian florist, Lyubov_.”

More than a decade ago, two criminals barely beyond their greenhorn years spoke in tongues sweeter than sunshine. St Petersburg’s Pokrovskaya Hospital cradled us in its corridor and I pulled out a bouquet bursting with yellow sunflowers. Andrés slipped payment into my pocket. I passed him the flowers, our fingers brushed, and he gave them back to me. “ _These are for you,_ ” he promised.

The bittersweet smile on Berlin’s face confirmed that I wasn’t the only one indulging in a bit of nostalgia.

“ _It got me into a scion’s circle, an underground gambling ring, a ticket to Madrid._ ”

You’ve got to save the best for last. I licked my lips and lapsed into Spanish.

“It got me a first kiss with you.”

The bittersweet, nostalgic smile melted straight off Berlin’s lips. His gaze turned aside—away from me. I watched his shoulders tense with old pain.

He was in a mute green prison jumpsuit when I saw him sitting on his cell bed. His cellmate was out and likely making the most of their sole hour of yard time. I knocked on the door and waited. Andrés ignored it at first. I knocked again. He looked up, irritation gave way to shock, which gave way to a smile bright enough to kill the moon. He flew to his feet, damn the consequences of ruining my disguise, and swept me into a kiss. If I focus hard enough, I can remember how he dipped me down like we were dancing.

“Hey,” I said, leaning in and lowering my voice to a murmur. Our noses were almost touching.

“I liked it—a  _lot_ ,” I whispered.

Berlin’s eyes fluttered half-shut. He didn’t move closer nor did he move away. The distance between our lips existed like a ribbon of light before sunset. His gaze trailed to my hand tracing his jawline. This was a balancing act and he was teetering between his dignity and his desire.

After a few agonising seconds, he leaned back and laughed.

“Cairo, you must’ve been working hard these last years,” Berlin said, beginning to clap, “bravo. You nearly had me there.”

“I thought we both enjoyed my volunteer strip-search.”

His jaw tightened and relaxed as he tried to summon up some semblance of a response. His usual, unshakeable coolheaded wavered and I couldn’t help myself but smile at the sight of him. Berlin, my tragic romantic, still has a shred of love left for this swine.

I got off my chair and perched on the table dead ahead of him.

“Andrés.”

“Yes?”

“I still want to kiss you.”

Berlin smiled. It was such a bittersweet picture of beauty—like an oil painting; regal, but doomed to dry and break over time.

“I don’t believe a word out of your mouth,” he said.

It was my turn to laugh. I cupped his face in my hands and gazed into those dark, cognac eyes.

“Seeing is believing,” I said.

My thumb trailed along the swell of his bottom lip. I leaned in and I kissed him.

Andrés froze for a mad moment before his hands flew up and sunk into me like he couldn’t believe this was real. Like I was an effervescent dream that might bubble into nothing if he didn’t hold me tightly enough. He pulled me off the table and into his lap. We kissed for every anniversary I missed, for every birthday I never showed up for, and for every regret we stumbled into. He pulled away only to gaze at me.

And, god, he tasted like fifty million euros. 

 


	18. REUNION DAY

His skin was warm and getting warmer. Berlin had one hand on my back another under my knees when he lifted me up from his lap. I wrapped my arms around his neck and he pressed a kiss onto my cheek when he got to his feet.

I saw our reflection on the desk’s glaze. A former (or current?) couple; the man carrying the woman bridal style—and I felt my lips curl at the irony. It was like he was making up for lost time all those years ago.

_Shit, I was kinda into it._

I tilted my head towards his throat and kissed his neck. His pulse. The place he’d go weak at. I continued to pepper him with kisses down towards his collarbones. Berlin sighed when my teeth sunk in.

My back hit the leather couch and I heard my jumpsuit’s zipper slide down between his fingers. He was kissing me, sucking my bottom lip, and slipping his tongue into my mouth when I gasped. He tasted like unspoken promises and smoke. Damn, he even smelt like Guerlain's stupidly good  _Vetiver_. My heartbeat began to drum in my ears. I was Eve and Andrés was my forbidden fruit. His cold fingertips ran up my back, I hissed, and my eyes fluttered open.

We broke the kiss and Andrés had me staring up at him. I yanked down his jumpsuit’s zipper. He rewarded me with one of those charming smiles. I saw the coy look I flashed him in those eyes before I wrestled him under me. I had him pinned now. Down and shirtless.

“Berlin!” Tokyo called from the other side of the door.

The doorknob rattled but stayed locked. Thank the stars. I cringed at a mental image of the brunette breaking in and shooting me in the head. 

“What is it, Tokyo?” Andrés said, absentmindedly running one hand up my forearm, “I’m very busy right now.”

“I can’t find Cairo.”

In one fluid motion, he flipped me underneath him. He pulled the top half of my jumpsuit down, took hold of my bra and threw it aside—where it crumpled on the floor. I scrunched up my face in exasperation and tilted his chin to look me in the eyes while I mouthed ‘what possessed you?’.

He smirked at me, shaking his head. Andrés he lowered his lips to my skin and kissed me where I was sensitive and shuddering, then he latched on to suck.

_Shit._

I seized a cushion and sank my teeth into the leather to try muffle any sound Tokyo might hear.

He doubled down with his efforts and I swatted him with my free hand. I felt him smirk against my chest. My knuckles were probably going white with how hard I was trying to stay silent.

“Berlin?” Tokyo said.

Finally, he pulled away from making a spectacle of me. He said, “she’s busy running an errand for me. Go back to your post.” I felt life pour back into my body when she scoffed and her footsteps trailed away. Andrés had one hand on my hips. Another reached up to curl a lock of my hair between his fingers. I set the cushion aside and regarded him. His lips were glazed and shone faintly in the light.

“Sometimes, I think I must’ve sinned a thousand times in another life,” he said, eyes dark with contorting feelings.

“…I’ve hissed through honeymoons with a tongue heavy from your name.”

He paused. His hands moved to my waist. Then, he continued.

“You had me fooled,  _mi tesoro._ I thought you ran away to die,” he spat, “until I heard you died a second time.”

Without breaking eye-contact and without warning, his fingers dug into me. Andrés thrusted—and  _grinds_ against me. My breath cut short and my head spun. Fuck! I can’t believe I forgot what it was like to be with him.

“ _But I burn for you_ ,” he said.

He tilted his head up and gritted his teeth through a heavy groan. The fabric between us felt so thin.

Andrés’s hands trailed up my curves until he clasped my face and, for a moment, I saw him like he was the night before our wedding. A face full of hopes and dreams, of which I’d inevitably ruin for years to come. The thought of stopping him, denying him, and teasing him crossed my mind—but I can’t deny myself. My fingers skimmed down to my waistband.

“Then burn brightly for me tonight.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! This is my first time posting a story on this site so please let me know if anything's off. Otherwise, if you enjoyed the story so far, let me know! Leave kudos or a comment. Make my day :)


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